


Oh My My

by antcircus (pantsferdinand)



Category: Sideshow - Fandom
Genre: Blood and Injury, Gen, Monsters, Partial Nudity, Witcher AU, dont know how to tag and first posted writing bing bang boom, dont know what else to tag, ships later probably idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-22 13:20:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22283482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pantsferdinand/pseuds/antcircus
Summary: A witcher finds a man on the cusp of death and he helps him, against his better judgement.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	Oh My My

**Author's Note:**

> hmhmhmhmmhmmm first time posting writing on the net. how is everybody doing today. title is from that ringo starr song which stupidly fits. might write more for this. who knows. definitely not me. thanks for stopping by. :)

His hands push forcefully on bandaged biceps, but the assaultee pushes back, desperate to writhe and scream and undo all the hard work the hands have done thus far. Why he tries, he never knows. It’s for coin, normally, but the bandaged battalier had none, this the witcher is certain of. 

The witcher is also certain that there’s no way this battelier is who he says he is. 

At least not completely.

The chest heaves and turns and bandages shift in a fire’s orange glow. Leather straps would’ve made this a bit easier, but the previous inhabitants of this hovel either weren’t the animal handling type, or they thought their kink supplies were necessities when fleeing these war-torn fields.

The younger’s screams tear through the cold night. Surely, he should have tired himself out by now, but it seems no weaker than when he started. “Sheesh, you’re supposed to be a soldier? Lie down and quit yer hollerin’. You’ll open your wounds.”

The fire crackles in its place. Embers and smoke dance around a hanging soup pot and up through what is left of the chimney. Moonlight gleams through the window above the bed, and onto the figure sitting upon it, as well as a redheaded mutant attempting to get the damn boy to settle down and stop irritating his bandages.

Clammy hands, bare and bloodied, grip the witcher’s forearms, wringing the cloth there. The soldier’s forehead, draped with sweat and black bangs, thunks against the witcher’s shoulder. 

He whimpers pathetically.

Well, at least he’s not screaming anymore.

“I know it hurts, but you need to lie down and stop moving.” The redhead speaks softly now. Honestly, it’s amazing that concoction didn’t knock the dude out, with the amount of blood he’s already lost and the state his battered body was already in. It would knock any sane and healthy man out in the time it takes to down a pint.

The soldier’s shoulders sag and he allows himself to be pushed back onto the sheets. For the first time in hours, the witcher sees the soldier's eyes, muddled and bloodshot. The lying figure stills, save for the ragged rise and fall of his chest. 

The soldier is not quiet for long. 

“W-what sort of p-p-poisonous piss did you make me d-drink? M-my insides feel like they’re b-burning…” He croaks out. 

“That ‘poisonous piss’ should cure you of the blight and disease you contracted from the rotfiends who just about tore those insides right out of your body.” The witcher explains as he stands and strides over to grab a leather skin of water from a nearby table, boots clunking along the loose floorboards.

“S-should…? What if it d-doesn’t?” 

“I’ll give you one guess.” He sits again on the bedside stool and hands the skin over. “Drink slowly.”

The soldier takes the skin with shaking hands and takes a big gulp before spitting it back out violently. “T-t-t-the fuck is that?”

The witcher gives an unimpressed look and wipes the liquid from his face. “It’s water, you heathen. Your taste buds will be off for a week or so after drinking that elixir.”

“Blegh, it t-tastes like sewage. I can’t drink that.” He attempts to hand the skin back, but the witcher pushes it right back at him.

“You will, or you’re going to have a much worse time pissing that cure out in a few hours.”

The soldier hesitates and eyes the skin warily before taking a few small sips, wincing. 

Save for the obnoxious sipping and the occasional disgusted groan, the witcher revels in the relative silence. Although now that the yelling has stopped, he’s got to figure out the solution to his next problem: what the fuck is he going to do with this guy? The obvious solution would be to leave him as soon as he passes out from exhaustion. The boy’s got no coin and he’d be dead weight to travel. It’s doubtful the soldier could even pick up his halberd if he tried. Plus, there’s a good chance the disease will flare back up and need a second dosage in a fortnight or so. He can’t carry this guy around with him for two damn weeks. Being dangerously low on funds, he’s got to find a job soon, and preferably a well-paying one.

On the other hand, there’s something not quite right about this soldier. His armor was torn to shreds, and held no obvious crest or sigil. He looks to have been straight out of a skirmish once the redhead found him, but the battle that took place in these fields happened weeks ago, there’s no way the soldier was the sole survivor, wounded, and laid on the ground bleeding for that long, especially with the amount of rotfiends scouring the place. Plus, this guy took a very potent witcher potion like a champ, for someone not mutated. There’s not a small chance that potion would kill a normal man, much more a mostly dead guy. 

But again, the much more sane option would be to leave this dude here.

The witcher is knocked from his thoughts as he hears the thump of the water skin being placed on the small bedside table. The soldier’s eyes are very heavy, and his breathing has smoothed tremendously.

“So, w-witcher, got a name?”

His brain yells at him to not indulge the strange man on this request. His brain knows that he’ll have to stick with this guy, at least until they get to the next populated town, if he gets chummy. The soldier has no coin. He cannot fight. It’s only by some cruel miracle that this man isn’t dead.

“....Jared.”

“Nice to m-meet ya, Jared. You can call me B-buck.” And with that, the soldier closes his eyes, finally asleep. 

Jared ever so slowly closes his eyes, leans forward so that his elbows are propped up on his knees, and smacks his palm onto his forehead.

“Damn it.”


End file.
